


What is Already Yours

by Mithen



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage and Discipline, Consensual Sex, M/M, Safewords, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock discovers John doesn't trust him to be an attentive Dom, he sets out to prove him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sherlock Kink Meme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=125460161#t125460161) asking for a BDSM relationship with Sherlock as the Dom with lots of slow trust-building and aftercare.

_ I keep wanting to give you     what is already yours _  
_ it is the morning     of the mornings together _  
_ breath of summer     oh my found one _  
_ the sleep in the same current     and each waking to you _  
  
_ when I open my eyes     you are what I wanted to see _  
_ \--W.S. Merwin, "A Birthday" _

"Intriguing," Sherlock Holmes said as John kissed him lightly on the top of his head on his way to the kitchen. "I hadn't observed it before, but it's obvious now."

"Hm?" John was still feeling a complicated mix of smug and confused about the fact that he and Sherlock had started sharing the same bed now and then--half his mind seemed to keep gasping _what the hell?_ while the other half kept muttering _about time, you idiot_ \--and it was slowing his response time down a bit.

"That you're interested in bondage."

John stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. "Sherlock--"

"--I'm sorry," Sherlock said, sounding--as usual--not sorry at all, "But once I had the extra information of seeing your sexual reactions it became blindingly clear." He looked up at John. "Should I have pretended not to have seen it? Is this one of those things again?"

John glared at him. "Well, no one particularly likes to have their secret fantasy lives dragged out and analyzed in the cold light of day, no."

"Ah," said Sherlock, "So you confirm my observations."

John resolutely turned his back on Sherlock and went into the kitchen. "Would it be any use at all to deny it?"

"Not really, no."

"Then yes, you are right as usual," John said, reaching around an extremely dubious-looking piece of plastic ware to grab the milk. "Congratulations."

"Shall we start with some handcuffs next time? I know where to find a good flogger as well."

John took a long, steadying breath. "Sherlock--"

"--I've learned some very interesting Japanese rope techniques, and--"

"Sherlock--" John raised his voice to carry over Sherlock's, who was moving on to discuss different kinds of rope and the feasibility of constructing a St. Andrew's cross, "--Sherlock, _no._ "

Sherlock stopped talking abruptly, confusion crinkling his brow. "No? But...it turns you on. You're turned on now."

John sighed but didn't deny it. "Sherlock, it's not...practical."

"I think it sounds eminently practical. And fun." The wicked tilt to Sherlock's smile made it necessary for John to sit down and catch his breath. "So what's the problem?"

"Sherlock, _think_ for a second." Poor choice of words: Sherlock glowered at him. "What I mean is, when you get focused on a case, you tend to forget I'm even in the room. I don't mind most of the time," John said hastily before Sherlock could say anything, "But you better believe I'll mind if you go flitting off in a moment of inspiration and leave me trussed up like a Christmas goose."

Sherlock's eyebrows went up. "You don't trust me," he said.

John winced, but squared his jaw. "If you must put it that way...no. I love you dearly--" He paused for a moment to recover from the way Sherlock's face lit up from within for an instant, "--But I wouldn't trust you with the care and feeding of a guppy, much less my health and wellbeing while tied up."

The light in Sherlock's eyes muted as he steepled his fingers and tapped his mouth with them. "I see," he said.

"It's nothing personal--"

"--Don't, John. It's obviously personal. But I take your point. I need to think about this."

"Look, some things are just better off left in the realm of fantasy, don't you think?"

Sherlock didn't respond; indeed, he seemed to have forgotten John's existence entirely, staring straight ahead into space. After a moment, John clapped him lightly on the shoulder and went back into the kitchen, leaving him to his thoughts.

And for three weeks after that, Sherlock did not bring up the issue. Sex was glorious and fun and exasperating (rather like Sherlock himself), and if John Watson sometimes found himself remembering the lilt in Sherlock's voice as he discussed nylon versus jute rope, he kept the memory--and his reaction to it--resolutely to himself.

**: : :**

John sat down with his morning coffee to find Sherlock staring at him across the table. "...Yes?" he said after a moment.

"I need you to trust me," Sherlock said.

"I do trust you," John said without thinking, not sure what the discussion was about.

Annoyed exasperation wrinkled Sherlock's forehead. "You said you didn't."

"When did I--oh," John said. "But that's not the same thing, Sherlock. I trust you with my life, just--"

"--Just not with your wellbeing and happiness," Sherlock finished. "And no sane person would blame you," he added at John's wince. "John. I hate to sound melodramatic, but I want to deserve your trust. It..." He looked embarrassed and annoyed at the same time, as he usually did when forced to say anything that could be remotely construed as being about his feelings, "It...bothers me."

John buttered a bit of toast, largely as an excuse to look away from Sherlock's imploring eyes. "It's not that I don't want to--"

"So let me prove myself, John."

John took a bite of bread and chewed it, considering. "What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock leaned across the table. "I thought perhaps we could start quite slowly, with very light restraints that you can get out of easily if--well, if things go poorly. If you are satisfied with the results, we can move on to more challenging situations. If I fail you at any point, then we stop there, no further negotiation."

After a moment, John nodded. "I can work with that."

Sherlock leapt to his feet and grabbed a notebook, handing it to him.

"What's this for?"

"I want you to write it down."

"Write..."

"Each step. What you would be comfortable with first, and then what would come after, for as long as you can imagine." Sherlock nodded. "It's best to be as clear as possible, don't you think?"

John fiddled with the pen, clicking it on and off a few times while looking at Sherlock's face. Then he wrote something down on the paper.

Sherlock leaned over to look at it and John involuntarily shielded it from him with his hand. Sherlock shot him a look. "Sharing this information is rather the point, John."

After a moment, John showed him the pad.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "One of my scarfs? Not the best material for a restraint, I would have gone with nylon--"

"--It's an emotional issue, Sherlock, not a practical one."

"Though I suppose it has its practical side," Sherlock said consideringly. "It would be easier to tie loosely and thus get out of, so--"

"--exactly," said John. "Eminently practical, that's me."

"I'll need more detail than just the bondage material," Sherlock prompted him. "What acts do you want done to you? How much pain and how much pleasure? For some people being tied up is enough, while others--"

"--Right. Uh." John looked at the paper, his mind racing in unseemly ways.

"If there's going to be flogging or other pain play involved, I suggest we save that until you trust me more, as loose restraints might defeat the purpose. So maybe just a hand job or a blow job?"

The more Sherlock waxed eloquent, the more John was finding it hard to focus. Sherlock's hands were tracing elegant lines in the air, and John couldn't seem to stop staring at them, imagining them-- Great, just _talking_ with Sherlock about this was turning his mind to mush. _Snap out of it, John._

"Before you start a list, we'll definitely need a safeword," Sherlock said. "Something resolutely unsexy. Something that we would never, ever cry out in passion under any circumstance."

There was a short pause.

 _"Anderson,"_ they both said together, and burst out laughing.

That decided, John started making his list, trying to keep his writing steady as Sherlock leaned over his shoulder and murmured things like "Oh, I hadn't thought of _that_ , and you know that's saying something," and "I do hope we get to that one, it sounds _fantastic._ " John kept writing until Sherlock gave a pleased gurgle of laughter and whispered "Oh yes, I was hoping you'd mention _that_ " directly in his ear, at which point he put the pen down and lunged at Sherlock.

"But the list--" Sherlock protested as they tumbled onto the sofa.

"Damn the list," John growled. "We'll finish it later."

**: : :**

"Um. All right." John sat down on his bed, feeling more awkward than aroused. This was all very thrilling in theory, but in reality he found himself rather worried that Sherlock would get bored and disappear. He fiddled with the top button of his shirt. "Do I get undressed or--"

"--Let's start with you dressed," Sherlock said. "Less vulnerable at the start. Plus it's so much fun to _un_ dress you." He produced a maroon scarf with a flourish and handed it to John. "As per our agreement."

"Ah. Yes." John took the scarf, the touch of the silky wool igniting ghost-memories of past fantasies across his skin.

"Now, before we start--" Sherlock crossed his arms and his fingers drummed something complex and abstruse against his upper arms. "There's something I need to do. I swear I'll be right back," he said quickly at John's expression. "I'm not leaving the flat. Just--just give me fifteen minutes. If I'm not back in fifteen you can call the whole thing off."

Reluctantly, John nodded, and Sherlock grinned and disappeared downstairs, leaving John with the scarf. Or, as he was more inclined to call it, The Scarf. He ran its length gently through his hands, remembering the many times he had envied Sherlock's scarves--the way he touched them, the many opportunities they got to caress his skin. _Think you're hot stuff, huh, Scarf? Look at me now._

"Twelve minutes and twenty seconds." John looked up to see Sherlock leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed, smiling a bit smugly.

"I wasn't keeping track," John said.

"You should," Sherlock said, his smile vanishing. "I intend to keep my promises, and I expect you to hold me to them. Now lie down and put your wrists together over your head. And please spare us both the reflexive arguing," he added as John opened his mouth. "I know your masculine pride insists on it, but I think we've established that you actually want me to do this."

"I wasn't going to argue with you," John groused as he lay down.

"Yes you were."

"No I wasn't."

"Yes you--" Sherlock broke off and rolled his eyes. "All right, you've been contrary. Is your masculine pride satisfied now?" He didn't wait for an answer, but took the scarf from John's hands, somewhat to John's regret. "Hands up," he said.

Grimacing slightly and biting back a variety of retorts, John put his hands up over his head, against the slats of his headboard.

With quick and efficient motions, Sherlock looped the scarf around his wrists and secured them.

John swallowed.

"You could get out of that, right?" Sherlock said. "The fabric has a lot of give, so..."

"I'm pretty sure I could," John said, tugging.

"Prove it." Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John's glare. "I need to know you can get out if--if you need to."

John tugged until one of his wrists slid almost free of the scarf's coils--it took some work, but he could do it. "There," he muttered, feeling somewhat let down as Sherlock re-tightened the knot. He understood in theory what Sherlock was doing, but his fantasies had never really involved restraints that were more symbolic than anything, and he wasn't sure that--

Sherlock reached down and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt with long, deft fingers, and John closed his eyes for a second and took a long breath.

"Oh," murmured Sherlock, "That was fast." John blinked at him. "I expected you to bicker and be snarky a lot longer."

"I can...I can still be plenty snarky," John said.

"Really?"

Sherlock undid the second button, and John groped for something sarcastic to say, but sarcasm seemed to have fled his mind entirely. He finally had to settle for "Yeah, really," which he had to admit wasn't the snappiest of retorts, and from the smirk on Sherlock's face it hadn't made much of an impression. Another button, and another, and Sherlock pushed aside the cloth so the shirt fell open more, fingers brushing along skin in esoteric patterns.

"You're quite beautiful," Sherlock said, then looked surprised and faintly hurt when John started snickering helplessly.

"I've been called a lot of things, Sherlock, but 'beautiful' has never particularly been on the list."

Another button--the last--and Sherlock brushed aside his shirt. "It's not my fault you've surrounded yourself with morons until now," Sherlock said huffily. "Certainly you're not conventionally handsome or attractive--"

John rolled his eyes. "You could have just left it at 'you're beautiful' and that would have been okay, Sherlock. But no, you've just got to go and--"

Sherlock grabbed the waistband of his jeans and yanked on it peremptorily. _"You're beautiful,"_ he said, his eyes blazing.

"Told you I could still manage snarky," John said, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice the breathless undertone to his voice.

Some of the incandescence went out of Sherlock's eyes and he chuckled low in his throat. "Did I say that I was _disappointed_?" he said. With the tip of his finger, he traced a long, lazy line from the hollow of John's collarbone down to his navel. "I rather liked the way your eyes glazed over and your mouth went lax and gentle," he said. "The way you pulled involuntarily against the restraints, as if you were savoring the way they held you in place," and _damn_ it, there it was again, that wave of languid sensation that swamped him and left him feeling dazed, pinned in place by far more than a simple scarf.

"Um," said John, moving his hips so that teasing finger might slide lower.

Sherlock's touch dodged his movement, flickering upward again. "What, no snappy comeback?"

"Not really, no," John managed.

Long fingers trailed downward once more, and John's world narrowed dizzily down to that line of irresistible sensation. "I think we're about ready to move on, don't you?" Sherlock said, and John felt the breath stutter in his throat as he undid the button on his jeans.

Then Sherlock paused, and John could feel his attention shift and re-focus. "Button," he said. "Copper-zinc alloy." A sharp intake of breath. "Of course. Of _course_. Stupid of me not to have seen."

"Sher--"

Sherlock stood up and headed for the door.

"Sherlock!"

Without turning around, Sherlock held up his hand for John to be quiet and left the room.

 _God damn it!_ John was about to call his name again, knowing it was useless, when he heard a _thump_ from the top of the stairs, just out of sight.

A moment later, Sherlock was in the doorway again. "I'm back!" he announced breathlessly. "I didn't abandon you!" He crossed the room in two long steps and was at John's bedside again. "Now, where were we?"

John glared at him. "Untie me."

"What?"

"You left the room."

"Only for a second, it doesn't count."

"I don't _care_." John yanked his wrists against the scarf. "Get me out of this. We're done."

Sherlock stood and looked down at him as if he were waiting for something.

"We're _done,_ " John repeated.

After another long moment, Sherlock started to smile. "I don't think so," he murmured, and reached down to start to unzip John's fly.

"Don't you dare," snarled John. Sherlock's motions were slow and deliberate; he felt like he could hear and feel--oh God, _feel_ \--each tiny tooth of the zipper being undone. "Stop it _now._ "

"You know," Sherlock said conversationally as grasped the waistband of John's jeans and slid them down to his ankles with one quick motion, "This is exactly why we have a safeword, John." John crossed his ankles and glared, but Sherlock maneuvered the jeans off entirely despite him. "So you can argue with me every step of the way--"

"Stop ignoring me, damn you," John grated as Sherlock slid one sock off, and then the other.

"--and you can say anything you want--"

"You arrogant, domineering egomaniac--"

"--and rest secure in the knowledge that I'm not going to give up," Sherlock finished triumphantly. His fingers rested on John's ankles, stroking, circling that little knob of bone, and when exactly had anklebones become an erogenous zone, John wasn't sure.

"Stop it," he stammered.

Sherlock's hands slid upward, insinuating themselves between John's calves and the sheets, tightening just enough on the muscle to make John gasp, like a promise of future delights John was reluctant to examine too closely.

"Besides," Sherlock said, "A bit of a struggle makes the moment where you finally give in and beg me for it all the more satisfying, doesn't it?"

"As if I'm going to give you the satisfaction," John muttered. He could hear his breath coming fast as if it belonged to a stranger, and Sherlock's hands were on his inner thighs now, and it was getting very difficult to think of anything at all.

"Not satisfying for _me_ ," Sherlock said, hooking his fingers into the waistband of John's briefs. "I meant for _you_."

"Oh, you bastard," John groaned as Sherlock finally, _finally_ pulled his briefs down. "God damn it." He pulled against the scarf, feeling his fingers splay in desperation as Sherlock bent over him.

Sherlock's tongue traced a long, cool, delicate line against his length, and all John's fury transmuted in that one stroke into a need just as transcendently demanding. "Hnn," he heard himself moan, his back arching. "Oh God. Please."

"Patience," whispered Sherlock, the very touch of his breath a torment.

"I need it," John stammered.

"I know." There was a pause, and then Sherlock said, sounding slightly amused: "That's interesting."

A vague fear pierced the haze fogging John's mind. "What?" he said, bracing himself for some chilling observation or derailing tangent.

"I'm enjoying this much more than I thought possible," Sherlock said. And then he was kneeling beside the bed and bending over John and that clever, wicked mouth was--

John jolted hard against the scarf, bolting upright just enough to see the corner of Sherlock's smile, and that glimpse was enough to send him over the edge into a truly shocking amount of bliss.

"Let me get you out of that," Sherlock murmured some time later, and John pried his eyes open to see Sherlock reaching up to his hands. He licked his lips unconsciously as he undid the knot, and John closed his eyes and shuddered.

Sherlock rubbed his wrists and arms gently as they came loose. "Did I pass?" he said.

John looked sharply at him, searching for some sign of mockery, but Sherlock's face was serious and--was that a flicker of _worry_? "Other than that one moment you left the room, I have no complaints," he said, absurdly aware of what an understatement that was.

"Won't happen again," Sherlock said. He grabbed the garish afghan Mrs. Hudson had made from the floor at the foot of the bed and pulled it over John, then crawled under it himself, still fully clothed. "Hardly bored at all."

"Hardly," from Sherlock, was high praise indeed. "Do you need to--I mean, can I--"

A long leg hooked around John's hips and pulled him closer. "--I want to hold you," Sherlock murmured, and yawned against John's temple.

John looked up at the ceiling, feeling emptied out and utterly at peace. After a while he drifted to sleep, lulled by the soft sound of Sherlock's breathing.

**: : :**

He came awake in the middle of the night and extricated himself from Sherlock's arms--Sherlock rolled over onto his back, his brow furrowed earnestly even in sleep. John resisted the temptation to kiss that wrinkle and threw on a robe before heading downstairs.

Or he started to head downstairs, but in the dim light he banged into something at the head of the stairs. "What the hell?" he muttered, bending down.

It was a chair placed at the top of the stairs, blocking the way down. A yellow sticky note caught the light, and John could see scrawled on it in Sherlock's distinctive handwriting: **"Turn around and go back."** The "go back" was underlined twice.

John squinted at it. "Sod off, Sherlock," he mumbled, moving the chair out of the way. "Not funny."

At the bottom of the stairs, he reached to turn on the light, but his fingers found paper instead: another sticky note that fluttered to the floor. Flicking on the light, he blinked down at another note: **"Go back."**

"What the--" John turned toward the kitchen and stopped dead as he realized that there were little yellow notes adorning much of their belongings. He peeled one off the skull's forehead. **"John,"** it said, underlined angrily. **"You've forgotten John."**

On the laptop: **"Go back upstairs."** On the violin, blocking the strings: **"You've abandoned John."** On the seat of Sherlock's chair: **"Go back."** On the refrigerator door: **"Go back to John."** Inside, on the jam jar: **"John."**

From its recharger on the table, Sherlock's phone chirped quietly, and John heard a familiar dry voice say, "Sherlock? This is you. If you're hearing this, you have some brilliant idea you simply must follow up on, I understand completely. But you probably only have a couple of minutes left to get back upstairs. I suggest you do so." A pause, and then the voice added, more sharply: " _Immediately._ Stop being an idiot."

John stood in the middle of 221B, blinking. He peered at the phone, which was set to play back every fifteen minutes. Then he stood for a little while longer, looking around at the notes scattered like flower petals around the room.

After a while he gently put the notes back where they had been and went upstairs to slip back into bed, careful not to wake Sherlock.

When he woke again in the morning Sherlock was already gone. So was the chair at the top of the stairs. Sherlock was squatting barefoot on his armchair, holding a button up to the sunlight. The sticky notes were gone, vanished like a dream.

"Good morning," he said as John entered the room. "I do hope last night was worth the six hours I lost that I could have been working on this very promising lead." He flashed a quick smile. "On the plus side, your jeans button reminded me of something important, so I guess it wasn't a total waste of time."

John shook his head, doing his best to look exasperated, as was expected of him. "Glad to be of service."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's not just the sub who needs aftercare.

"I have to admit, I will rather miss the scarf," Sherlock said idly, producing a pair of neoprene cuffs from a black bag on the floor and twirling them on one finger.

"Well, we don't have to retire it just yet," John said.

"No, the next item on your list is moving on to cuffs. I've graduated from the first three items--with, I might add, flying colors--and it's time to put some real restraints to the test," Sherlock said.

John bit back an impulse to cling to The Scarf. Sometimes Sherlock's methodical tendencies were not exactly an advantage. But he folded it carefully and put it next to the bed.

"Let's start with you unclothed this time," Sherlock announced. "I'm going to restrain your legs as well, and I can't get your clothes off once you're all tied up." He watched, bright-eyed, as John slowly undressed, and the mere act of removing all his clothing bit by bit, becoming more and more vulnerable, was enough to leave John rather glassy-eyed and aroused by the end.

Sherlock took in that bit of information like he took in all the others, and John watched his eyes as that careening mind made ineffable connections. "Lie down," Sherlock said, nudging him with his smile.

The cuffs were soft but implacable, and although John could pull against them without any discomfort there was no getting out of them on his own. That knowledge alone sent a spike of adrenaline and arousal stammering through him, and he closed his eyes and took some deep breaths.

He opened them again when he felt another cuff closing over his ankle and heard a faint _clink_ of metal. Peering down, he saw that Sherlock had bound his foot to a metal bar.

"Spreader bar," Sherlock said cheerfully at his questioning sound. He closed the last cuff around John's other ankle, leaving the bar between his feet. Reflexively, John tried to pull his legs closed, but the bar made it impossible. "Oh, don't worry," said Sherlock at his expression. "I know penetration is much later on the list. But I wanted you to feel more vulnerable."

"Ah," said John. It certainly had the desired effect, he thought as Sherlock slid his hands up the inside of his legs until his thumbs brushed against John's balls.

 _Clink. Clink_. The connections on the spreader bar chimed as John tried to bring his legs together and failed again, and Sherlock smirked. 

"So handy for overcoming reflexive defenses," he noted. "And you have so many of those, don't you?"

John glared at him. "Armchair psychology doesn't suit you," he said. "Stick to the tobacco ash and footprints."

Sherlock ignored him entirely, his fingers tracing patterns over John's hipbones. "A tight-wound, prickly ball of self-sacrifice and duty: doctor, soldier, blogger for justice. All superego."

It was difficult to snort dismissively with Sherlock's hands doing increasingly demanding things to him, sensation skirting right up to the boundaries of pain without ever quite going there, but John managed it. "You think Freud is bullshit."

"Of course he is," Sherlock breathed in his ear. "But it's rather sexy to imagine your poor id just begging for someone to pay some attention to it for a change, since you apparently won't." He nipped at John's earlobe and John hissed through his teeth. "Always ready to drop everything and run off to help someone who needs helping. Not that I mind--well, as long as it's me you're dropping everything for. It's annoying when you do it for someone else, though." He leaned back and smirked at John. "No chance of that for a little while, is there?"

He reached out and slid a finger from John's navel up to a nipple, adding a sharp pressure that made John gasp out loud. "What--oh." It was the strangest thing: part of him knew that what Sherlock was doing was technically painful, but another part was just aware of the sensation, the pure laser-bright intensity of it. His thoughts seemed to be spiralling inward, focused on that point of contact as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered. "Mm."

"That's it," Sherlock said, his voice clinical and caressing at the same time. "You don't like pain for its own sake, you're no masochist--"

John managed to dredge his mind up from the sweetness that threatened to dissolve it completely long enough to mutter something about how, considering his living arrangements, that was debatable.

Sherlock chuckled but continued as if he hadn't heard him, his fingers tenderly cruel. "--you're no masochist, but that point where pain becomes nothing but sensation and you can lose yourself in it, that's the goal." Everywhere he touched was a point of searing light that drew John's mind to it like a fluttering moth, dragging his thoughts away from anything else. "Let me take you there." His hands, his voice. There was nothing else. "That's what you need."

"Need," John heard himself say, and wasn't sure if he was speaking for himself or simply echoing Sherlock. He wasn't sure it made much difference anymore. It all felt so good, and he wanted more of it, of what Sherlock was doing to him, he knew Sherlock could bring him even more.

Sherlock made a pleased purring sound in his throat that seemed to stroke along him like velvet. "You drop down so fast, John, it's really quite flattering." The words didn't have much meaning anymore, but the satisfied tone filtered through the haze cradling him and pulled an answering, needy sound from him. "Next item on the list, then."

The lovely fierce hands left his body, and John gasped at the emptiness they left behind. After a moment there was a small, sharp noise, and he focused his eyes on Sherlock to find him with a short strap of leather in his hands. He blinked and tried to clear his mind enough to speak. "I thought...the crop?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "That's for work," he said as though stating the obvious. "I thought a strap would let me perform at a more...intimate proximity."

"Ah." John tugged at the unyielding cuffs, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's. "I guess--"

Sherlock smiled at him as if at a delightfully promising clue and brought the strap down across his upper thigh with a brisk _crack_ that cut his words off into a gasp before he realized the blow had been a light one, more sound than impact.

"That--didn't hurt much," John said.

"Well, one must start slowly," said Sherlock. "Otherwise it just hurts, and what's the fun of that? Any idiot can hurt someone," he said with an offended sniff. "This, though--" Another impact, this one just a bit harder, "--this takes skill and intelligence and _focus_." The third blow landed on his other thigh, a bright lick of silken flame that made him close his eyes for a moment. "You're really quite lucky you have me, John."

Any other time John might have argued the point, but right now it seemed far too much effort. The impacts were coming faster and harder, precise and exact, placed unerringly where he needed them to be to drive him further and further from rational thought. It was good, so good, it was what he'd craved for so long--

And then in between one blow and another, something clicked over in John's mind, some cold intellectual process taking over unwanted, and it was _pain_ again, and the next strike was going to _hurt_. Without thinking--too late, no one could respond so fast--he blurted "Anderson!" as the strap was descending--

The strap stopped a breath away from his body, all momentum arrested, leather brushing his skin like the gentlest kiss. 

Sherlock tossed it to the side unceremoniously. "Are you all right?" he asked, his hands already busy on the cuffs, opening them.

"I'm--I'm fine," John said, and Sherlock was kind enough for once not to point out the lie as he rubbed at John's shivering arms and gathered him close. "I just--I don't know what happened, but--I'm sorry."

He half-expected Sherlock to argue, to point out that he hadn't been doing any lasting damage, that he had been staying scrupulously within the boundaries John himself had set. But instead he just murmured, "No apologies. That's why we have safewords." John followed his gaze to his bare thighs, the long reddening stripes garish against the pale skin. Sherlock reached out and followed one line with his finger, his eyes opaque. Then he seemed to pull his thoughts back from some distant place and rolled off of the bed and onto his feet. "Wait here, I'll be just a moment." He stopped. "If that's all right?"

John nodded, and Sherlock was back almost before he could finish pulling the blankets up, carrying a tray on one uplifted hand. With a flourish, he put it down on the bedstand to reveal a heap of strawberries and grapes, a teapot covered with a tea cozy, a pot of honey and two mugs. "I had Mrs. Hudson put together a little platter for us."

"Good God, you didn't tell her what we were--"

Sherlock gave him an terrifyingly angelic look, then marred it by snickering. "Of course not." He picked up a strawberry and tapped it against John's lips until John opened his mouth. "Good boy," he said blithely, popping it in.

When he had watched John drain the last of his tea and polish off enough of the fruit, Sherlock put the tray aside. "So," he said with the airy casualness he reserved for either entirely frivolous or deadly serious topics, "Are we done?"

John snorted. "You've got work to do, I gather?"

Sherlock looked blank for a moment, then frowned. "No, I mean done. With this. Not for tonight. For always."

"What? Why?"

"Well, you had to use the safeword. You--it didn't go well." Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's thighs, hidden now by the blanket, and his voice was precise and brittle.

"That's not--" Sherlock so rarely needed reassurance that John felt himself floundering. "Using a safeword isn't a failure. If you'd ignored it, we'd be done. But we're not done. At least--I mean, I'm not. You did everything right."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his face opaque, his eyes scanning John's face, assessing. Then his shoulders relaxed slightly, an almost imperceptible tension unstrung from his tendons.

"I do think my timing especially was quite good," he said. "Just the right pace to achieve maximal sensory overload." He looked thoughtful. "Though I've had a few thoughts about ways to improve the flow and impact of the strokes." He made some experimental whipping motions, his eyes abstracted, and was muttering something about kinetic energy and conservation of momentum when John leaned in and kissed him.

"Mmf," he said against John's mouth with some surprise, but then his eyes slid closed and he wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close. 

John deepened the kiss, startled to discover that it was Sherlock who was trembling now. "Are _you_ okay?"

Sherlock exhaled forcefully. "Sensory overload," he said. "Adrenaline. Physical reaction. It will pass." 

"Right." John swung a leg over Sherlock to straddle him. 

"Doesn't that hurt?"

"I don't give a damn." John kissed Sherlock's throat where that rich chuckle fluttered, then kissed his hands and the delicate shiver still shaking them. "You're brilliant," he said.

"I am quite aware of that."

 _Which doesn't mean you don't want to hear it sometimes_ , John thought but did not say. "Astonishing. Magnificent. Beautiful--" Sherlock wrinkled his nose and John returned hastily to compliments that mattered, "--keen and sharp as a blade, my terrifying towering mind. My genius, my guiding spirit, my lamp in the darkness. You dazzle me." The words came so easily, as if a secret door had been unlocked and swung wide, freeing them. "My enchanter, my magician." Words he needed to say perhaps as much as Sherlock needed to hear. "An unquenchable flame, with hands as fleet and bright as lightning."

He opened Sherlock's shirt, pressed kisses into each rib until the gasping breaths eased beneath his lips. He murmured phrases into his hair that trailed into broken nonsense about angels of intellect and unyielding stars in their spheres, until Sherlock glowed beneath him like a star indeed, burnished once more into blaze. "My unfailing light," he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, as if he could fill his lungs with trust, and Sherlock made a small sound and gathered him close.

"I think I might have something of a talent for this," Sherlock murmured somewhat later. He stroked John's hair absently, his hands steady and sure once more: hands deft enough to pluck one thread of truth from a tangle of facts, controlled enough to cut reality like a diamond.

Masterful enough to halt an unwanted blow in midair as fast as thought.

"Well, there's no reason to be smug about it," John grumbled instead of saying any of these things, and felt the last bit of tension ease from Sherlock's frame. The chest beneath him shook with a low chuckle that trailed off into something like a sigh.

John waited for Sherlock's retort, but all he eventually got was a small snore and the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten the last word this time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrating the completion of John's list, Sherlock comes up with a few improvisations and surprises, and John doesn't mind at all.

Sherlock put a finger to John's lips. "You are practically begging to be gagged when you talk like that, you know."

"Sorry." John grinned unrepentantly against the pressure of Sherlock's finger, knowing perfectly well that was a threat he would never follow through on. Sensory deprivation items--blindfolds, gags, earplugs--were all on the "under no circumstances" list. 

John had never given a reason, and Sherlock had never needed to hear one.

"And stop grinning, you ruin the aesthetic," Sherlock said crossly, bending down to tie another knot in the intricate jute bindings. John was sitting backwards on a chair, his hands bound together across its back and his ankles tied to the back legs. "You're supposed to be sweetly submissive, not cheeky."

"If you're looking for a sweet submissive, you might have the wrong partner," John said around a giggle that was threatening to sneak from his throat. He could never seem to help talking back at first, no matter how cranky it might make Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed under his breath as he adjusted the knots that pressed into John's flesh, muttering about pressure points and the proper placement of knot patterns. "You make a delightful graduation present, John. All wrapped up and ready for anything."

His anticipatory tone made John close his eyes and take a deep breath, trying to keep his head clear a little longer. Try to be _something_ of a challenge, John, he told himself. "I'd say you've even graduated _summa cum laude_ ," he said, and soaked up Sherlock's snicker.

"Which means I'm no longer limited by your--frankly unimaginative--list and I may improvise at last," Sherlock said. "How do you like it so far?"

"The crazy knotting? It's--" John leaned into the knots, feeling them holding him in place, pressing deliciously into carefully-chosen bundles of nerves. "--Actually quite, um, nice. Isn't it Japanese?"

"Adapted from, yes," said Sherlock. He eyed his work. "Quite attractive."

The latticework of ropes distributed the pressure with an almost hypnotic evenness, wrapping him in luxurious helplessness. John pressed against them, secure in the knowledge that no knot tied by Sherlock Holmes would ever give way. He could push as hard as he liked and know he was safe. "So are you going to _do_ something, or just fiddle with pretty knots?"

Sherlock's smile was dangerous and delighted. "Oh, I intend to do something indeed, John." He reached into his bag and came up holding--John's mouth went dry--a long, single-tailed whip.

"Those are--those are really difficult to wield, Sherlock," John stammered. "They take a lot of finesse and skill, you know."

Sherlock bestowed a luminously pitying glance on him: _Your attempts to goad me are pathetically transparent, John._ "Indeed. An elegant tool, requiring discipline and control." Looping it over his arm, he leaned down and produced his leather gloves, pulling them on briskly, and John's mind staggered sideways: he had never said anything about the gloves, and _certainly_ nothing about whips--how did Sherlock--

He didn't even bother to finish the pointless question: by now he should know the answer (to this and so many others) was _Sherlock._

Sherlock moved past to stand behind him, letting one leather-clad hand trail from his shoulder down his back as he moved. "There's a certain visceral aspect to a whip, isn't there?" he observed. "So much symbolic weight. The sound alone can be arousing to some people."

From behind him came a crisp, determined _crack_ that seemed to strike like a blow straight at the roots of John's brain. 

"Very nice," murmured Sherlock, and only then did John hear the sound that had been torn from him. Another _crack_ , this time over his head, and he bit his lip, his breath coming harder. "I haven't even touched you yet, John."

"I'm well aware of that, damn it," John snarled. He started to turn his head, wanting to _see_ it, all that wildfire control, but Sherlock made a sharp noise of command.

"Keep your head turned away. I'm not risking hitting your face."

"As if you would," John said.

"Oh? You trust my control that much?" Sherlock's voice glowed smugly, and this time the _snap_ was much, much closer; John felt the breeze fan his shoulder.

"You know I do," whispered John. He was shivering, which only made the cords press against him more firmly. 

"Then let's say I find it distracting," Sherlock snapped, and John reluctantly let it drop. It was getting hard to argue at this point as he waited for the impact that would lift him out of himself, how long was he going to have to wait, _God._

"What's the matter," he grated past the tremble in his throat, "Afraid to get to it?"

There were two more cracks in quick succession on either side, and then, just as the waiting became completely unbearable, Sherlock said "All right then." 

This time the sound was accompanied by a stroke of almost delicate flame across his shoulderblades; John jolted against his webbing of ropes, body crying out in animal instinct to flee, adrenaline firing his nerve endings. "Ow, damn it," he said. "Stop it. You shouldn't be handling dangerous weapons."

He leaned dizzily into the hushed moment of waiting, _feeling_ Sherlock's whipcrack smile, knowing he wouldn't stop no matter how rude or dismissive John was. "Cheeky," Sherlock murmured.

Two quick explosions of sound and sensation, these with more _thud_ to them, shattering the protests in his mind into silence for a moment.

"Of course, you should be perfectly aware that the most dangerous weapon is the human mind," Sherlock observed as if he were lecturing a room full of Oxford dons. "Source of all mastery and all pleasure." The next lick of flame was almost cold, a pain that hinted at endless bliss on the other side of some hidden door. "How I wish I could see what was going on in your brain right now, it must be lovely. All the little neurons blazing into life at my command, a radiant net to trap you in pleasure. Cascades of sparks, torrents of electricity--" A jolt of pure light and sound; John heard himself make a guttural noise that was not at all of agony. "The shining connections transforming pain into delight." His voice lowered, caressing. "Let go, John. Let me lead you there."

John felt himself going limp in his bonds, trusting Sherlock's sure hands, and that rush of trust was the most blissful narcotic he had ever imagined. He gasped and shuddered, losing himself in the sensation, letting it drive him onward into serenity, all the world narrowed down to Sherlock and himself. Words fled, thoughts fled, his mind was laid bare to Sherlock's light, and time itself seemed to falter and fail.

There was a pause, and the sublime agony ebbed a little, leaving him empty and yearning. "Don't stop," he managed to mutter, the words slow and meaningless in his lax mouth.

A rustle of movement, and long fingers gripped his chin, gently forcing his head up. "Open your eyes. Look at me," a cool voice said, and he looked into pale eyes in a frowning face, beautiful as a star. He tried to say something, but language kept slipping away from him, and it didn't seem important to get it back.

Sherlock was saying something about dilated pupils, reflexes, heart rate. The voice was intoxicating, the words were meaningless, surely it was obvious he needed more, why was nothing happening? "John," Sherlock said, and he groped to connect that set of sounds to himself; he started to giggle at the idea that a collection of arbitrary noises could sum him up, it was ludicrous.

"Earth to John," said Sherlock, his voice amused. "I'm checking to make sure you remember the safeword."

"'Course I do," he slurred, anything to get back to that timeless space, _please_.

"You'll forgive me if I have my doubts," Sherlock said. "You don't have to say it. Just give me a hint you remember it."

He stared at Sherlock, blinking. He felt _so good_ and all he wanted was to keep going, why would he ever need Sherlock to stop doing anything to him? The absurdity of the thought made him start giggling again, dropping his head in helpless delight.

"Tell me where you can find the safeword," Sherlock said. "Or someone else associated with it."

Sherlock wanted something from him, so he wanted to provide it, but it was all arbitrary sounds again, everything was garbled nonsense but Sherlock's voice. " _You_ know," John stammered. "The--the place. With the thing. _You_ know. You know everything. You--you're perfect and I just want you to--to keep--I can't-- _please_ \--" 

Sherlock tangled his fingers in his hair and he groaned at the contact, words slipping away from him again completely: _yes, touch me more._ But Sherlock straightened with a quick, fluid motion, the whip pouring into a long river of darkness on the floor at his feet. "I believe we've had enough for now," he said. He snapped the whip away from them with an offhanded flick of the wrist--John closed his eyes at the sound and shuddered luxuriously--then coiled it around his hand. Gently, he touched the leather to John's lips. "You've done well," he murmured, a benediction and a blessing. "Good job."

John sagged against the ropes, the breath leaving his body in a sob of pure relief and release. "Oh God," he heard himself say. "Jesus."

Sherlock undid no more than four of the knots holding him in place and the whole network of ropes went slack. John started to stand, realized he was shaking too hard to manage it and faltered, but then Sherlock's arm was around him, supporting him.

Together they managed to stagger to the bed and collapse there.

John fell face-first into the pillow and felt no inclination to ever move again. Sherlock's hand--bare now--touched his shoulderblade. "Does that hurt?"

"Nope."

"That's the endorphins," Sherlock said. "Let me get some--" A rummaging sound, and soon cool cream was being spread across his back. 

"It's fine," John mumbled.

"Trust me, you'll be feeling it tomorrow."

John had no intention of telling Sherlock that feeling those marks on his skin the next day, under his clothes, burning like a secret as he went about shopping and writing and chatting nonsense with people, was a large part of the appeal. 

"I feel very, very good right now," he said instead. Which was a severe understatement for the blissful peace of mind and body he was currently floating in, but he knew Sherlock would understand what he meant.

"I'm rather satisfied myself," Sherlock said. Wiping off his hands, he laid down and pulled the blankets up, carefully avoiding contact with John's back. "But there's always room for improvement. I felt my timing was off on the eighth through fourteenth strokes. Too fast." A pause. "I might have let my breathing and heart rate get a trifle elevated for a moment. Careless."

John buried his face in Sherlock's neck. There was a very faint smell of sweat on the skin. "I didn't notice."

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock snapped. "You were even less observant than usual, which I suppose is the point."

"Mmm." It was far too much effort to be annoyed right now. John was safe and complete and cherished--albeit not in the most conventional of ways--and Sherlock's tone rolled off him and was gone, lost in contentment. "You were perfect."

"Your judgment is at best suspect and at worst entirely sentimental," Sherlock said. A moment of silence. "But--thank you."

"You'll do better next time," John said.

"Next time," Sherlock echoed him. He sounded quietly pleased. "Yes." 

Silence fell once more. John let his thoughts drift in no particular direction. The sheets smelled of both of them together, a warm animal smell. He breathed it in, an animal in its den with its mate, fortified against the world. Everything was good.

Sherlock's chest shook slightly with that familiar almost-ghoulish chuckle, jarring John from his lack-of-thought. "I'm planning out next time," he said in response to John's questioning sound. "Would you like to hear the details?"

"No."

"No?" Sherlock's voice had the faintest hint of hurt in it. "But I think you'll enjoy it, it's rather ingenious. You--don't care?" 

John wrapped his arms more tightly around him. "Sherlock," he said. "I trust you."

"Oh," Sherlock said. And then again, exhaled on a low breath: _"Oh."_

John fell asleep listening to Sherlock breathe, their arms around each other as if holding something precious and fragile and utterly unbreakable.


End file.
